


looking for words (that were so well rehearsed)

by clayisforgirls



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Footnotes, Holding Hands, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: “I was wondering, if you’re still amenable to the idea, if you, er, how did you phrase it? If you wanted to ‘hunker down’ in the shop. With me.”Crowley mouths the wordamenableto himself, wondering not for the first time why he’s in love with a nineteenth century dictionary.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 106





	looking for words (that were so well rehearsed)

If Anthony J Crowley was a human being, he’d be the kind of person who _enjoys_ lockdown. Crowley’s perfectly crafted persona[1] is all about living the best possible life, and if that happens to inspire envy in even the happiest of humans, well, that’s all part of being a demon. Anthony J Crowley has, in fact, spent his lockdown posting inspirational quotes on Twitter, perfecting his latest instagram post of a bottle of 1996 Cabernet Sauvignon, and trying to inspire his followers to learn French, because _really, if the French can learn it, it can’t be that hard!_ [2]

Except when the humans have nothing to enjoy, inspiring jealousy isn’t _fun_. All of Crowley’s posts have just made him feel guilty: the humans are good enough at making themselves miserable in times of crisis. They don’t need a demon making them jealous that someone is actually accomplishing something this lockdown, and not just arguing over whether Carole Baskin killed her husband.[3]

If Crowley was still submitting reports to Hell he’d be taking credit for all of the things humans have done to themselves: Tesco not having enough toilet paper, Netflix reducing their streaming bandwidth so everything is just slightly fuzzy, and those Joe Wicks PE videos that seem to inspire marmite reactions.[4] It’s close enough to his own brand of low grade misery that Hell would never know the difference.

Being a free demon, Crowley is not submitting any reports to Hell, and has instead been moping for the last forty hours and thirty six minutes.[5] The tv remote is tangled somewhere in his duvet. His phone hasn’t left his hand in two days _just in case_ Aziraphale changed his mind on spending the rest of lockdown together. The aforementioned Cabernet Sauvignon hasn’t been more than half empty since he tumbled into bed, miraculously refilling itself every time Crowley took a drink straight out of the bottle. If there was an award for moping, Crowley’s almost certain that he would win it. He’d probably take gold, silver, _and_ bronze.

He’s so committed to moping that at first, he thinks he’s imagined the faint chime of a miracle. That he’s wanted something so badly that he’s trying to bend the world to his will.

That is, until he hears a familiar voice.

“Oh, _hello_ , yes, I know it’s been a while,” Aziraphale says softly, the words almost too quiet to hear. Crowley pauses _The Golden Girls_ , because who the heaven could Aziraphale be talking to? “You’re growing _wonderfully_. And oh, is that a new leaf? The stripes are _very_ beautiful.”

The _bloody_ snake plant, of course. It had adored Aziraphale since the first time the angel had set eyes on it, and Aziraphale had adored it right back, to the point where it now lives under the television in the room which was formerly Crowley’s office. Can’t have the rest of his plants going soft, not like the good for nothing snake plant he only keeps around to make the angel happy.[6]

Crowley’s halfway out of bed before he stops himself, the desire to stroll into the living space as casual as anything warring with the side of him that wants Aziraphale to come to him. He knows he could go seek out Aziraphale, feign surprise that the angel’s standing in his flat, poke and prod at Aziraphale’s weak spots until the angel agrees the bookshop is the safest place for both of them. He’d give Crowley that _look_ , the one Crowley is powerless to resist, and with a snap of infernal power they could be sitting on opposite ends of Aziraphale’s old sofa, Crowley sprawled across his end like limbs are just a thing that happen to other people, Aziraphale sitting primly on the other.

Except, he’s trying to be a better demon. Well, a worse demon. A better _person_ , even though he isn’t one. Falling back into old habits isn’t going to get where Crowley wants to be any faster. 

Crowley takes a breath, counts to five, and watches the skinny jeans he’d conjured out of firmament fade into the very real sweatpants[7] that cling to all of his sharp edges. He tumbles back onto the bed, his limbs rearranging themselves in a way that wouldn’t be possible to a human, and tucks his feet under the duvet to hide the smattering of scales that curl around his ankles.

Then he untucks them, because Aziraphale knows he’s a demon. Even if his eyes didn’t give it away, he’s seen Crowley’s feet in all of their scaly glory. If Aziraphale can’t deal with them, then—

Crowley tucks the worst affected foot back under the duvet. Except then it looks obvious that he’s trying to hide that one foot, and Crowley rearranges his tangle of limbs so that he’s half buried under the covers, one of his feet sticking out in what he hopes is a casual pose.

“Hello,” Aziraphale says, looking entirely out of place in Crowley’s doorway. Crowley doesn’t have a clue how long he’s been standing there, and he’s honestly not sure he wants to know. “I thought you—that you might be asleep.”

“Said two days, didn’t I?” Crowley retorts. “Come to make sssure I’m not ssspreading evil?”

“No!” Aziraphale exclaims, looking only slightly guilty. “I know you wouldn’t, Crowley, I just—well, you see—”

Aziraphale stops abruptly, wringing his hands together in that all too familiar way. Crowley wants to take them into his own, curl his fingers around the softest skin in London. Wants to press kisses to Aziraphale’s knuckles, tell him it’s okay to want something against the rules. 

He doesn’t. He _can’t_. _Too fast_ , Aziraphale once told him, and they both know he wasn’t talking about Crowley’s driving. This has to be at Aziraphale’s speed. 

And Aziraphale’s speed is a dance Crowley knows by heart. Give Aziraphale a timescale, ask him to join Crowley for drinks or dinner or a show before one of them leaves town, and Aziraphale will fret and worry and say _we shouldn’t_ until he allows himself to agree to whatever Crowley suggested under the guise that he needs to thwart whatever wiles Crowley is currently wiling. In the last two hundred years, the wiles have almost always been thwarted by getting drunk at the bookshop.

It’s a dance older than time. One that probably isn’t going to change any time soon. When Crowley had decided to take the credit for adding self help articles to glossy magazines, he’d found an article in between the endless drivel which theorised it took humans three weeks to break a habit. For an angel that’s been singing the same song for six thousand years, Crowley thinks Aziraphale is doing okay. They’re making baby steps, at least. Do babies take steps? Must do. Otherwise that wouldn’t be a thing.

Except, this feels more like a giant leap. Baby steps would have been Aziraphale calling Crowley, telling him in a roundabout way that he truly wouldn’t mind if Crowley were to miracle himself into the bookshop. Ideally with wine. Instead Aziraphale is standing in Crowley’s bedroom, trying to find the words that he’s probably spent the last two days rehearsing.

Crowley rearranges his limbs into an approximation of a pretzel so there’s space for Aziraphale to sit on the edge of the bed, the duvet falling to one side. It’s meant to be an obvious invitation, but Aziraphale blinks a few times before perching stiffly in the space Crowley’s feet no longer occupy. He sits like he always does—his back straight, plush thighs pressed together, hands resting on his knees—like the soldier he was made to be. Crowley wonders if with time, that will change too. 

“I was wondering, if you’re still amenable to the idea, if you, er, how did you phrase it? If you wanted to ‘hunker down’ in the shop. With me.”

Crowley mouths the word _amenable_ to himself, wondering not for the first time why he’s in love with a nineteenth century dictionary. Aziraphale probably has one in his shop. Probably the same one he had when it opened. He can’t ask Aziraphale of course, because that would just end up with Aziraphale showing him the blasted thing, and—

Well, it would be a good excuse to go to the bookshop, anyway.

“Of course,” Aziraphale continues, his eyes flicking around the room until they land on the 60 inch television that didn’t exist two days ago, “If you’ve found something better to do, like your _Golden Ladies_ —”

“It’s _Golden Girls_ Aziraphale, how many times—” Crowley cuts himself off when he sees the curve of Aziraphale’s mouth. Just enough of a bastard, indeed. “No, I haven’t found anything to stave off the relentless boredom. I’ll all yours.”

There’s a pause where Crowley’s brain catches up to Crowley’s mouth, but it’s too late to take the words back. He can’t look at Aziraphale for fear of what he might find on his face, and keeps his eyes firmly glued to his hands tangled in the duvet as he tries to backtrack.

“Not that I _am_ yours. Just, you know, I‘m bored, and you’re baking all these cakes. We could do that together. But separately. In the same place.”

“I know what you meant, my dear.”

_And all the implications thereof_ , Crowley thinks, because Aziraphale’s tone is too knowing to be anything else.

“Finally figured out the rules don’t apply to us, angel?” Crowley teases, trying to get the conversation back on track and far, far away from his stupid feelings he’s forgotten to hide. “Dunno what gave you the hint. Maybe that _we can’t get sick_.”

“Actually, I asked the Google!” Aziraphale says excitedly. Crowley doesn’t correct him, because he suspects the angel literally asked his ancient computer the question and because Aziraphale expected it to answer, it did.[8] And if _the Google_ helped Aziraphale bend the rules to his advantage, he’s not going to argue.

At least not until he’s safely in the bookshop, lounging on the sofa with a glass of wine in his hand.

“It showed me these three ladies, much like your _Golden Girls_ , I suspect, and they were drinking wine! Together!”

His joy is infectious, and Crowley basks in the warmth spilling from the angel even though he hasn’t a clue what he’s on about. There’s a second where his hindbrain says _warm_ , the snake inside of him wanting to wrap itself around the angel and never let go, but no. That’s definitely _too fast_. 

“And it seems as long as you’re not going around and frat—er, _seeing_ other people, as it were, it appears there is no harm in spending this lockdown with, erm…”

“A friend?” Crowley offers. Aziraphale offers a relieved smile in return, a wordless thank you that Crowley can fill in the things he still can’t find the words for.

“Quite. And if you still wish to sleep, I have a very comfortable bedroom you are more than welcome to use.”

“Angel, I’ve _seen_ your bedroom. It hasn’t been updated in two hundred years,” Crowley says. “Your mattress is probably made of straw.”

“Oh, hush you,” Aziraphale says. Crowley notices he doesn’t deny that his mattress is made of straw. At least he can miracle his own into Aziraphale’s bedroom if he really needs to sleep.[9] What Crowley really wants though is to spend time with the angel, and if he has to spend the next few weeks watching Aziraphale bake, eat, and read, then he’ll suffer through it somehow.[10] “Now, we best get a wiggle on, I’m in this middle of testing a new bread recipe and oh, I hope it’s not overproved by the time we get home, it would be such a shame to—”

“Angel,” he interrupts, because if he doesn’t then they definitely won’t get back in time for Aziraphale to avoid a bread related disaster. “Give me a few minutes. Just got to grab a few things. Go… pick out some wine. Maybe something to go with that sachertorte thing you were telling me about. There should be a case of Riesling I picked up in, oh I don’t know, the 80s?”

“It is a _schwarzwälder kirschtorte_ , and my dear, your palate is quite frankly, appalling. You cannot pair a white wine with a cake which already contains alcohol. It’s preposterous.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Crowley grins. “But I need to—”

He mimes the motion of snapping his fingers. Aziraphale looks at him, seemingly taking in for the first time that he’s in something approaching pyjamas, his hair a disheveled mess. They’ve seen each other in less throughout the years, but this feels intimate in a way Roman baths never did. Back then, Aziraphale’s cheeks weren’t stained with pink, and he wasn’t looking at Crowley the same way he looks at the dessert cart at the Ritz.

Crowley’s certain he’s blushing too, but it’d happen to anyone if Aziraphale looked at them like they’re something to be savoured.

“Oh, yes, of course, I’ll be in the, in the wine. I mean, in the, um, cellar. Remember what I said about the bread!”

Aziraphale scuttles off to explore Crowley’s wine collection, and Crowley takes a moment to commit the exact shade of the pink of Aziraphale’s cheeks to memory before he snaps his fingers. 

He’s instantly wrapped in jeans and a shirt, reaching for his sunglasses out of habit. He hesitates once his fingers curl around the metal, and instead of covering his eyes he miracles them into the bookshop. They might be necessary for interacting with humans[11] but he doesn't need the glasses with Aziraphale. Sure, he can hide behind them, keep his emotions under lock and key, but he’s been trying to do less of that.

He slides his phone into the pocket of his jeans[12] and looks around for something else to take with him. He could just miracle everything he needs into the bookshop, but there’s something that Crowley likes about packing. Makes him feel a bit more human. And unlike the humans, he can just miracle his clothing home if it doesn’t fit when he goes to repack it.[13]

It’s calming to fill a bag with things Crowley probably won’t use. Things like his phone charger[14], a spare pair of sunglasses[15], and three different sets of clothing, including the aforementioned sweatpants.

“Angel!” he yells once he’s done, and Aziraphale’s muffled reply comes from inside the wine cellar. 

“Find anything you like?” he says as he steps into the kitchen, dropping his bag on the table that doesn't quite match the rest of his kitchen.[16]

“Did you know you had a 1962 Chateaux Petrus hidden behind a case of Bordeaux? I can’t even remember the last time I had this Crowley, it really is quite a marvellous year.”

Aziraphale pokes his head around the doorframe, the lone bottle of 1962 Chateaux Petrus clasped in his hands, and Crowley feels sick. He remembers exactly the last time Aziraphale had this, or at least, the last time they shared a bottle.

“Scotland,” Crowley manages to croak out after several aborted attempts at words. Edinburgh, to be more precise. Aziraphale had been based there for several months one winter in the late 1970s, and Crowley had nipped in on his way home from a temptation.[17] They’d had dinner, and dinner had turned into drinks at Aziraphale’s flat, which had turned into lighting a fire and drinking the case of Chateaux Petrus Crowley had brought with him.

Except while Aziraphale had drank the wine, Crowley could do nothing but watch him. He’d been enchanted by the way the flames danced over Aziraphale’s skin, the way they made his hair look like the halo that he keeps hidden from human eyes, how he could have been the inspiration for every painting from the Renaissance.

_Beautiful_ , Crowley had thought, not for the first time. And then he’d polished off the rest of his glass in one single gulp, because having those thoughts around Aziraphale was banned.

It hadn’t stopped Aziraphale slurring _If things were different, you’d be m’best friend_ after he’d finished another two bottles by himself. Crowley had momentarily stopped time, sobered himself up accidentally while having a panic attack, and then pretended he was too drunk to have understood what Aziraphale had said. Crowley hasn’t known what to do with the words other than lock them in a box filled with nothing but hope.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. So he does remember. Crowley had never been entirely sure, since like most things, neither one of them had ever brought the evening up again. “Well, if you don’t wish to share this one, I would completely understand.”

“No,” he says, too loud and too frantic, and forces himself to take a breath. Tugs at the loose thread on his shirt, jams his hands into too small pockets. “I was, uh, saving it. _Foraspecialoccaision_.”

Crowley’s certain it’s written all over his face, the _special occasion_ being the moment that Aziraphale finally puts a name to this thing between them. When Crowley can tell Aziraphale he’s bloody stupid for him without the thought that he’ll get kicked out of the bookshop for it. He knows he’s an open book without his glasses, knows he could snap his fingers and give Aziraphale the plausible deniability that he always needed. 

But he doesn’t. Just watches Aziraphale’s expression soften as he takes a step towards Crowley.

“It’s very kind of you to wait.”

“‘M not kind,” Crowley mutters, even though the words fill him with a warmth he’s reluctant to put a name to. Aziraphale isn’t the only one trying to break six thousand year habits.

“But you are,” Aziraphale says softly, taking another step towards Crowley, the wine deposited on a table that was brought into existence for that purpose. “There is not one other being in this entire universe who would forgive me as many times as you have.”

_Because I’m in love with you, and you know it_ , Crowley doesn’t say.

“S’what friends do, innit?” he says instead, but his heart isn’t in it. Friends pales in comparison to what they both know they should be.

“Be that as it may, I _am_ sorry. About the, erm…”

Instead of words, there’s a complicated expression on Aziraphale’s face which Crowley takes to mean _being the angel I was trained to be_.

“You’ll get there, angel.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will,” Crowley says, stopping himself before he tells Aziraphale he’s clever and brave and if he has to have faith in something, it’s always going to be the only truly good angel She ever made. Before his love spills over and Aziraphale is hit with the full six thousand year force of it. Instead he reaches for Aziraphale’s hand, loosely clasps it in his own. _Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss_ , Crowley thinks, and then hates himself for it. Bloody teenagers and not using their words.[18] “We’ve got eternity to figure it out.”

“I suppose we do,” Aziraphale says, twisting their fingers until they’re slotted together. A perfect fit, like their bodies were made for each other. Like yin and yang, the balance of darkness and light that can’t exist without the other. “And an eternity with you is far better than any other option I have been presented.”

Crowley wants to protest because really, if the options are spending an eternity with him or _The Sound of Music_ that’s not really a compliment, is it, but Aziraphale smiles as though Crowley’s miracled Hamlet to be a success all over again, and then he’s leaning in and pressing a kiss to Crowley’s cheek.

Every single one of Crowley’s brain cells ceases to function. It feels as though he’s stopped time, the world narrowing to Aziraphale: the soft lips pressed against his skin, the warmth of Aziraphale along his side, the fingers slotted between his own.

“Maybe it would be best if we came back for the wine,” Aziraphale says gently. Crowley isn’t sure how Aziraphale expects him to reply, not when his brain can do nothing but focus on the fact that _Aziraphale kissed him_.[19]

He opens his mouth trying to find something that isn’t a consonant, but he can’t make anything work. It doesn’t seem to matter because Aziraphale takes it as the affirmative he meant it to be, curling his fingers tighter around Crowley’s, his thumb trailing over the spot where Crowley’s pulse should be.

“Ready, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, and he doesn’t wait for a reply before he snaps his fingers.

* * *

1 Read: accidental influencer.[return to text]

2 Crowley has actually been fluent in French since 1793, just in case Aziraphale thought crepes were worth dying for again.[return to text]

3 She did. Her name has been on a list for Hellbound souls since 1997.[return to text]

4 Crowley is also responsible for marmite, but in his defence, he didn’t mean for anyone to actually like it.[return to text]

5 Not that he’s counting.[return to text]

6 The snake plant isn’t the only thing he keeps to make the angel happy. Also see: the room formerly known as Crowley’s office, which now contains a hideous beige couch and a tartan blanket.[return to text]

7 Well, mostly real. He’d found them in the women’s section, and because Crowley had expected them to fit, they had.[return to text]

8 This is, in fact, exactly what happened.[return to text]

9 Crowley will shortly find out this won’t be necessary, as Aziraphale replaced his mattress right after the bookshop was miraculously no longer burnt to the ground. He will deny that it is anything more than a coincidence, but the mattress is a replica of the one in Crowley’s bedroom.[return to text]

10 The only thing that’s going to cause Crowley any kind of suffering is Aziraphale making those soft, pornographic noises every time he takes a bite of cake. It just makes him wonder what kind of noises Aziraphale would make if his lips were wrapped around something else instead. So really, it’s Crowley’s cock doing the suffering.[return to text]

11 When coloured contact lenses were in fashion, Crowley decided it would be the perfect time to experience the world without his glasses. It took less than an hour for Crowley to get annoyed with people asking him where he bought his contacts from and since then, the sunglasses have been a permanent fixture when humans were involved.[return to text]

12 It only fits because Crowley expects it to.[return to text]

13 Crowley had once tried to claim that repacking a suitcase at the end of a holiday was demonic because it would never fit the same way. Beelzebub had laughed at him. Crowley still doesn’t know who’s responsible for this phenomenon.[return to text]

14 Crowley has never needed this, but there’s bound to be a first time.[return to text]

15 There are already fifteen pairs of sunglasses in the bookshop. The oldest pair has been there since 1941, and Crowley had been too embarrassed to go back for them after Aziraphale had spent the night washing his feet.[return to text]

16 Aziraphale had called his breakfast bar impractical, and what else was a demon to do than miracle something more to Aziraphale’s liking? [Also, see footnote 6.][return to text]

17 Crowley’s temptation had actually been in Manchester, but that was neither here nor there.[return to text]

18 The irony is not lost on Crowley. Not when his drunken ramblings had been the basis for the whole bloody play.[return to text]

19 Many hours later, Crowley thinks that if this is his reaction after Aziraphale kissing him on the cheek, maybe it’s best they’re taking it slow.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Amazed" by Poe. I found this song on an Aziraphale/Crowley fanmix in the latter part of the noughties and for me it's been their song ever since. (Yes, I said a fanmix. Yes, I said late noughties. Yes, I am that old.)
> 
> The video that Aziraphale references is [here](https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-51951583/coronavirus-three-grandmothers-self-isolating-together).
> 
> I'm like, 90% sure all the footnotes work but if they don't, let me know!


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